


every fair from fair

by billspilledquill



Category: French Revolution RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Shakespeare Sonnets - Freeform, this is getting stupider every time shakespeare is mentioned beware
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-18 14:51:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14215530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/billspilledquill/pseuds/billspilledquill
Summary: Saint-Just meets Robespierre, talks about poetry and shares some intimacy, not necessarily in that order.





	every fair from fair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MooseintheRain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MooseintheRain/gifts).



> sometimes when you are doing your works you are like???? Shouldnt i be writting abt dead french revolutionnaries instead of doing my actual work???? Warning: this is stupid and short i hope you enjoy?

 

Antoine has always liked poetry. Liked the soft verses, the iambic beats of your heart if you spell them right, some Frost’s letters combined with Shelley’s lines, and you get a madness that he has not tried to conceal yet. How noble in reason, he thought, weighting his money, buying a deluxe edition of Shakespeare’s sonnets, there’s nothing left but words, words, words.

He was being greedy, he knows that. The tuitions are difficult to pay already, but sometimes there’s choice to make. Between Shakespeare and living on the street? Definitely not the latter choice. But he still can afford both right now, so there’s that.

**Maxime 1:23 PM**

_Coming for lunch?_

He smiled, the copy of the sonnets light in his hands. Waxing poetry is so difficult when the subject is not near.

**Me 1:23 PM**

_Just brought some Shakes._

_Where are you?_

Maximilien texts him the address. He can feel the wind cutting his face, even though it is warm and sunny. He is walking fast.

**Maxime 1:25 PM**

_Didn’t you already have the Complete Works at home?_

_Oh no, Antoine._

_It is the Sonnets again???_

Dating Maximilien makes him realized three things: first, do not talk about his parents, second, do not talk about his friend Desmoulins (it’s okay, he doesn’t want to anyway) and third and most importantly, if he ever texts you with three punctuations in a row, there’s something wrong in your life and you need to rethink it and fix it _right now._

**Maxime 1:26 PM**

_Sometimes I wonder if you are a descendant of his and your only goal in life is to stole every Shakespeare sonnets you can find in bookstores, Antoine._

**Me 1:27 PM**

_Might publish my own poetry, in that case._

**Maxime 1:28 PM**

_We are not talking about Organt ever again, you promised._

Antoine couldn’t help but grin, puts the phone back in his bag. He sets a page at random, Sonnet CXXX. Dark Lady’s sonnets. My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun.

The grasses in the park are still damp from yesterday’s rain, and Antoine almost slips and falls to the ground (See: my mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground). Maximilien seems not to notice him. His head’s buried in his book, and Antoine can bet his life savings that it’s Voltaire he is reading. Maximilien has always liked reading his favorite author’s most favorite rival, and destroy him afterwards.

(See also: false compare)

He walks up to him, trying not to fall again. He sat on the ground, still wet and cold, kissed Maximilien forehead, and settled himself to read. He did not have any reaction, for Maximilien is never known to be attentive when he rests. Another flip. Sonnet LX. As the waves make towards the pebbled shore.

Their shoulders were touching. The afternoon’s sun is coming of them like scattered leaves, trees are towering over them, they are safe, the soft edged pages have a smell of libraries. Maximilien likes old, rusty pages, he said it is probably how they’ll be remembered as well. Ruined, highlighted passages in a book, perhaps, when the commentary and the commentators would cease to be them.

Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth, he should have replied then, and delves the parallels in beauty’s brow.

(See also: and yet to times in hope my verse shall stand, praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.)

There’s no sign of him noticing Antoine’s arrival, but Maximilien’s shoulders dropped, a signal of security.

“Maximilien?” He asked. There’s no reply. His eyes wavered a bit, but did not look up.

“I brought oranges,” he added. The fingers on the pages tightened ever so slightly. Maximilien puts down his book. His eyes fixing at the front.

He puts his head on Antoine’s right shoulder, his hairs grazing his face, making him want to laugh and blush. Maximilien doesn’t meet his eyes, but instead comes closer until his breathing can be heard beside his ears, “Can I have some?”

The small and tired voice makes him wonder if he had slept yesterday, Antoine didn’t, anyway. He hands him some, and puts his book on the ground. Some humidity has damped the edges.

“Thank you,” he says, eyes on the sonnets. He flips some pages, until it comes down to Sonnet XVII. Shall I compare thee to a Summer’s day. “This is the only one I know.”

“Oh,” Antoine says, amused, “you only need to know this one, Maxime.”

“Why is that?”

“Thou art more lovely and more temperate,” he said, _hot as fuck_.

Maximilien shifts his weight, but a light chuckle escapes his lips, “Thy eternal summer shall not fade, huh?” He reaches out and kisses his cheeks, a soft thing, like a feather, “I don’t know much about Shakespeare.”

“It’s okay,” Antoine says, kissing his hair in return, “Rousseau is more interesting anyway.”

“You truly think so?”

“No, but I think it would flatter you.”

Maximilien hums and settles himself more comfortably on Antoine’s shoulders, “Nay, so long as men can breathe or eyes can see.”

Antoine closes his eyes happily and doesn’t bother to finish it. They fall asleep a little after that, lunch and books forgotten, with Voltaire blasphemous proses and the unfinished sonnet, _so long lives this, and this gives life to thee_.  
   

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> plz yell at me in the comments for how stupid this is


End file.
